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Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer! still Ulysses sing. How long* that Hero, by unskilful hands, Stripp'd of his robes, a beggar trod our lands? Such as he wander'd o'er his native coast, Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost : O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread; Old age disgrac'd the honours of his head; Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shin'd

The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind. But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold

With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;

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Touch'd by your hand his manly frame improves 65 With grace divine, and like a God he moves.

Ev'n I, the meanest of the Muses' train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,

Tun'd by your hand, and sing as you inspire: 70
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:

Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boast my name
To thine united-for thy Friendship's Fame.

This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing, 75
While hov'ring angels listen on the wing,
To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise,
As, when they sing, suspended hold the Skies:
Or nobly rising in fair Virtue's cause,

From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80
Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend :
To verse like thine fierce savages attend,

* Odyssey, lib. xvi..

And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

W BROOME.

THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT.

THE following lines confer great honour on their young and highly accomplished author. The ideas are noble and poetical, the sentiments manly and grave, and the expression such as to give full effect to the whole. Pope never received a finer compliment than in the lines commencing-" Say, wondrous youth!"—

Mr. Harcourt was only son to the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, and died in 1720. His Epitaph by Pope is one of the very few that have escaped with but little injury from the severity of Johnson.

TO MR. POPE,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.

He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard

prepare

The
song of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads,
And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads;
First gives the palm she fir'd him to obtain,

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Crowns his gay brow, and shews him how to reign:
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a God.

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But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds

rejoice!

Unstain'd their praise by any venal voice.
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,
When prostitutes, or needy flatt'rers sue.
And see the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeserving temples torn;

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Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there Pale Envy dumb, and sick'ning with despair, Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye, Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the sacred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age; Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likeness in the stream:

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The GRACES these; and see how they contend, 25
Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.
The Chariot now the painful steep ascends,
The pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands,
Its prospect an unbounded view commands:
Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou chuse,
What laurell❜d arch for thy triumphant Muse?
Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his shrine,
Tho' ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine,
(From the proud Epic, down to those that shade 35
The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid)
Go to the Good and Just, an awful train,

Thy soul's delight, and glory of the Fane :
While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies." 40
SIMON HARCOURT.

LORD LYTTELTON.

MR. BOWLES objects to Dr. Warton's preference of Fenton's verses, and thinks" these lines of Lord Lyttelton much superior to all the other recommendatory verses, as elegant and correct in themselves, as the sentiments they convey appear sincere, and worthy an ingenuous, liberal, and cultivated mind. There is a small inaccuracy," he adds, " in one or two expressions, and perhaps it would have been better if Virgil's speech had formed the conclusion."

Of the comparative merits of these commendatory poems the reader must be allowed to form his own judgment; but it is somewhat extraordinary that Mr. Bowles should recommend as an amendment, that the poem should close with Virgil's speech, when this is evidently already the case.

TO MR. POPE.

From Rome, 1730.

IMMORTAL Bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preserv❜d, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!

To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient Wit :

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For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost :
From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Baixe now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.

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COMMENDATORY POEMS.

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So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state

Has felt the worst severity of fate:

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Not that Barbarian hands her fasces broke,

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And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her Cities desert, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,

That sacred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30
That there the source of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.
Illustrious Names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to instruct, and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whose Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who those Chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;

Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see

Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

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As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Beheld the Poet's awful form arise:

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